


just follow my smile

by pro_se



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassins, Cameos, Established Relationship, F/M, Fake Dating, Friends to Lovers, Gambling, Profanity, Templars, Title Subject to Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-07-12 12:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15995147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pro_se/pseuds/pro_se
Summary: “Howofficialdoes an official first date have to be?”---*previously titled "hoodwink'd"





	1. The Bet

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday shay patrick cormac ily

“Before I tell you anything,” Shay Cormac says, loosening his scarlet red tie and tossing his black waistcoat over an armchair, “you need to sit down. I don’t want you running out of here until I’m done talking.”

As if to emphasize his point, he bolts the door and slides the latch shut. He grabs you--  _ you _ , on your day off, in your apartment, wearing your old-fashioned pajamas that reminisces of old folk homes and tea doilies-- and sits you on the couch.

And then Shay gets down on one knee in front of you.

“What the  _ fuck _ \--”

“Calm down.”

“I  _ will  _ not, and  _ should  _ not--”

“Our fellow colleagues tossed their money in a betting pool and each chose a date for  _ our  _ first date within the year. Today is--” Shay checks his watch-- “the third of January. That means, for the next three hundred and sixty-five days, everyone we work with is gambling on our romantic endeavors.”

You stare.

The dark-haired man turns out his pockets. “See? No ring. But I  _ do  _ have a plan to royally fuck up their game. Are you in or not?”

“You don’t have to ask. You know I’m ride or die.”

“Yes, you are.”

It’s unsurprising that your coworkers questions the extent of your relationship with Shay. The two of you are practically inseparable. You transferred to the company at the same time and your twin personalities just  _ clicked _ . He rose quickly through the ranks and enjoyed field work while you were content to do paperwork in a glass-paned, multi-story building.

You always found time for each other. Movies, dinners, a road trip across the state. And you’re willing to listen to Shay’s plan, but first--

“Who the  _ fuck _ is responsible for this? Thomas? Bill? I’m going to kill them.” You grab Shay’s shoulders and shake him vigorously. “How much? How much did they bet?” you demand.

The tip of his tongue catches between his teeth as he struggles to mask a smile. He tries to sound nonchalant. “At least two-fifty. Probably closer to three hundred pounds.”

You let loose a string of curses. “Shit-rich business-- fuckin’ playboys-- burning money--” Now Shay  _ grins  _ like a bastard. “And in pounds? The fuck?”

“That’s what you’re concerned about? Currency exchange?”

“Let me be mad about something!”

You fume for a few more minutes, and Shay casually grabs a drink from your fridge. He waters the snake-plant in the corner of the room, adjusts a tilted picture frame, and then sits on the couch. One of his arms drape along the back of the flannel-patterned cushions.

You tuck your legs under you and glare at Shay. He holds up his hands in defense. “Don’t shoot. I’m just the messenger, sweetheart.” 

“Who told you about this?”

“Our meticulous boss, Haytham Kenway, thought we had a right to know about their little scheme.” Shay takes a sip of his drink. “They placed big money on the big dates: St. Patrick’s, St. Valentine’s, Easter, and Thanksgiving. Others are just random, hoping to get lucky. Whoever’s pick is closest to  _ our  _ first date, wins the pot.”

It’s easy to see Shay’s devious thinking. “So,” you say slowly, “we hijack the bet and go out on a day that  _ we _ decide to win the pot.”

“Right. And just to failsafe it, I’ll ask Haytham to pitch in our bets.”

“He’ll agree to it?”

Shay chuckles. “Apparently, it’s not the first time they’ve picked on their coworkers. Haytham would be  _ eager  _ for a little revenge for their...  _ subordination _ .” Something about his voice suggests that he borrowed the words straight from the steel-eyed boss himself. He sets down his drink. “So. Details. Either of us can ask each other out. As soon as we declare it publicly, the game ends.”

You grumble. “How  _ official  _ does an official first date have to be?”

“Official as fuck. Fancy restaurant, paying for the bill, goodnight kiss on top of the stairs. Sexy times optional.”

“Christ. No more chick flicks for you.”

He rolls his eyes. “As long as we make a big deal out of it, it’ll work. So we have to plan ahead. Make eyes in the break room. Leave gifts on our desks. Gossip with Hickey, and that’ll get the word around.”

“Fuck, marry, kill, and I’d fuck you?”

“Let’s get one thing clear:  _ I _ would be fucking  _ you _ , sweetheart.” Something roguish twinkles in his black eyes. “Pick a date.”

“September 12th,” you say immediately.

“My birthday,” Shay says amusedly. “Cute. Haytham will make sure that date is empty and free for us. We’ll plan a nice dinner, maybe walk along the pier, watch the sunset, and then I’ll walk you home like a gentleman.”

“No more chick flicks for Shay, I _swear_ I’m going to go through my shelf and toss them all out.”


	2. St. Valentine's

A month passes.

You think that you’d get used to the feeling of people watching you and Shay interact. It feels like the two of you are in an interrogation room, vividly and uncomfortable aware of being examined for every sigh or smile. You don’t often cross paths with Shay in the office building unless it’s in the break room. He claims that the coffee machine (identical to every other coffee machine in the building) on your floor is the best.

On the last day of January, the dark-haired man greets you with his usual cheer as you brew a fresh pot for the morning rush. “Off on another mission for Kenway?” you ask, flicking a finger at his tailored suit. Black and crimson, just the way he likes it. “Canada? Spain?”

He grins like a crafty fox. “Across town for a meeting.” His skills lead him to sites all over the world, and you’re always eager to hear where he’s going, and when he comes back. Shay leans against the counter and folds his arms. “You should get better evaluations and join me on the field.”

“It’s easier to join me and Bill in the office. Don’t you love paperwork?”

“No, I don’t. That’s why I give it all to you.”

“So  _ that’s  _ why I always seem to be filing your reports.” As you top off your flasks, you catch a glimpse of familiar faces through the half-open blinds. You recognize Hickey, Bill, Charles-- and then they turn hastily, as if their attention is drawn elsewhere. You hand the thermos back to him. “People are watching.  _ Again. _ ”

Shay takes a tentative sip of the hot coffee. “Don’t worry. The break room is mostly soundproof. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Oh my god. Did someone get caught  _ fucking  _ or--”

“You didn’t hear it from me!” he calls over his shoulder, already out the door.

Later, you learn that the bet made its way to the other departments. You thought it’d be contained to your workplace, the part of the company solely devoted to retrieving artifacts. Now it’s gone over to innovative tech and the restoration archives-- with colleagues that you often meet and interact with. Whereas the three sects often clash, it seems like this has briefly united them.

There’s nothing quite as amusing as watching coworkers get together; gambling makes the ordinary office setting even  _ more  _ fun.

And before you know it, it’s Valentine’s Day. According to the dastardly duo, Haytham Kenway and Shay Cormac, the fourteenth was one of the major dates. People imagine he’ll ask you out with a box of chocolates. You bring a couple boxes of frosted cookies, like you do every year, to hand out.

While waiting for the elevator to ring, Shay emerges from the emergency stairwell, hair mussed and tie askew. “Morn’,” he says, pecking you on the forehead with a quick kiss. Then he’s out the front door, hailing a taxi, and out of sight.

You stare after him. The doorman does the same, and then looks at you with raised eyebrows. “You didn’t see anything, Lewis,” you say, before stepping into the open elevator.

You’re ambushed again on the thirteenth floor by the infamous, freckled twins. Evie and Jacob Frye bicker and argue at the top of their lungs, as they tend to do. “--hadn’t misplaced the artifacts that I  _ specifically  _ told you not to misplace--”

“So I put a couple of packages in the mail cart. Big deal.”

“How on _ earth _ \--” She finally sees you and her eyes widen. “Hi. Good morning.”

You hold out the box of cookies. They take one each. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Evie. Jacob. Did we lose another artifact?”

Evie glares at her brother. “Not just one. A whole  _ list  _ of them.”

“Fortunately, they’re still in the building,” Jacob says, looking not at all concerned. “As long as we find them before Connor does, we’ll be fine.”

The elevator chimes as he crams the rest of the cookie in his mouth, and he seizes another before slipping out. Evie rolls her eyes and grabs another cookie before she follows. The twins are a handful, yet among the most competent when they are  _ willing  _ to work together.

You head towards your desk.  _ Hmm. _ You stare at the three-foot tall vase with lovely red roses on your desk. You set down your bags and the cookies, then gently touch the petals, searching for a non-existent note. They’re… beautiful. You’ve always had a soft spot for roses.

Then you glare at your full-bearded deskmate, William Johnson, who is watching with a curious smile. He has a paper heart taped to his jacket lapel. “Did you see who did this?” He shrugs. “Bill-”

“They was already here when I arrived. Honest.” Bill leans over and takes a cookie, handing you a heart-shaped lollipop in return. The first suspect that comes to mind is, of course, Shay. The man was in a rush this morning-- was he late because he stopped by your desk to leave a surprise gift?

Well, it takes you a minute to rearrange your entire fucking desk because of the huge vase, but you finally manage to cram everything. Whenever someone passes by-- usually to grab a cookie or drop off a report-- they smirk and point at the roses.

“Secret admirer?” Gist asks.

“How charming,” says Monro.

Charles squints at the flowers. “Are those from Shay?”

You open your mouth to reply,  _ No, they couldn’t be, _ but nothing comes out. It’s like a pin drops. William props his chin up with a hand and raises his eyebrows. Hickey rolls across the aisle in his chair with a shit-eating grin, a lollipop sticking out from his mouth. Waiting, waiting, waiting for your answer “I, uh, don’t know. Apparently no one saw who dropped it off.”

“But,” Charles continues, handing you a folder, “I thought you and Shay were dating.”

“If we are, then he hasn’t told me. We’re just friends.”

A text from Evie apologizes for arguing in the elevator and invites you to lunch at her office. You bring the remaining four cookies to her floor and greet your old and new friends. You’d spent some time with the archives before transferring, so you knew them well.

Jacob has his feet on his desk, a pair of chopsticks jammed in a Chinese take-out container. He’s arguing with Connor, one of the lead archivists, about artifacts that were  _ surely  _ kept under watch and were  _ certainly  _ not lost in the mail delivery system. Connor doesn’t believe a word that Jacob is saying, and he looks exhausted. You offer him a cookie out of sympathy. Two more go to Arno, who’s on his way to meet his Élise for a lunch date. He gives you a wrapped chocolate that tastes like salted caramel.

You’d save the last cookie for Shay, but instead give it to the new intern. “Poor Desmond,” Evie says, watching him wander around the offices with a wistful  look on his face. “Doesn’t know if which department he wants to work in.”

“I thought he was tech?”

“Yeah, but he keeps coming here. I think he’d prefer to work on restoration, but he doesn’t have the background or experience.” Evie glances at you and grins. “Not like you. Not a lot of people want to work for Haytham. On the other hand, Connor is a  _ wonderful  _ supervisor.”

You blow a kiss in his direction. “I do miss you, Connor. You were always a sweetheart.” He laughs quietly, shakes his head, then gives you a quick hug as he heads back to his office. It’s not difficult to see the familial resemblance between him and his father, however their personalities are like day and night.

Thankfully, there are no more flowers waiting when you return.

The work day passes, and as you’re one of the last ones to leave the office-- “Did you like my gift?” Shay purrs in your ear, his Irish lilt slightly hoarse. You jump in surprise and smack him in the shoulder with a folder.

“Shay! This is your fault?”

“I passed by a florist on the way to work. Couldn’t resist. I’m sorry.” He looks tired from his day trip, but he still has that charming smile on his face. Shay shifts his shoulders, his hands tucked behind his back. “I  _ do  _ have one more present for you.”

“I thought today--”

“Only if I say,  _ ‘Will you go out on a date with me’ _ , then we’ve most certainly failed our simple plan. I just thought I’d celebrate the day with you.” Shay brings out a large teddy bear holding a velvet heart with the message BE MINE. You love plushes, but--

This one has two huge, black eyes, lopsided ears, and its limbs are  _ just _ long enough to qualify for a horror movie. Its head is ridiculously overstuffed, and when you squeeze it, it makes a defeated, sad squeaking noise. “This is  _ terrible _ !” you howl, hugging the malformed bear to your chest. “It’s so terrible! Where did you find it?”

Shay lets out a burst of laughter, delighted by your reaction. “Some toy store halfway across the city. It looks fucking  _ possessed _ , right?”

“Yes! And it makes a fucking death rattle! Listen!” You squeeze it again. Then you throw your arms around Shay and hug him tightly. “This bear is going to give me nightmares, but the flowers were really nice. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you liked them. Happy St. Valentine’s, love.”

(He offers to carry the roses back to the apartment because the vase was much too heavy for you. Ever the gentleman.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: reader is part of the retrieval department aka templar, innovative tech is where the cool 20th century kids hang out, and restoration/archives is assassins


	3. March-June

March 17th. St. Patrick’s Day.

Watching drunk men in business suits try to climb into a car is worth more than dinner and a show. You don’t think any of them are sober so you flash your metro card and bid them a slurred good night. Shay and Haytham take a moment to consider the pros and cons, and then stumble after you. The three of you doze on the empty rail, occasionally pinching each other for not wearing green. Shay somehow manages to squash between you and Haytham.

“Green’s in m’ blood,” Shay mutters, letting his head fall on your shoulder. His comments dissolves into a Gaelic song, a language you’ve heard only a few times from him. Drunk Shay is talkative, prone to bar fights, and flirts like shit. Drunk Haytham also talks more than usual, so he forces himself to act very solemn around others. He seems to have trouble staying awake even as the train jostles uncomfortably.

“Will you be all right to go home?”” you ask Haytham quietly. “No getting lost on the rail, right?”

He smiles thinly. “It will not be my first time using the public system while inebriated.” God, how does he remain so impeccable? Haytham yawns, and for a moment, you see his son within that naive, innocent expression. “I am more concerned about Shay.”

“I can take him,” you say. “We don’t live far from each other.”

Haytham’s cool gray eyes land on you. They don’t scrutinize or examine like they usually do. “I understand your plans to deceive and rig the bet,” he tells you, “but may I ask: What  _ is _ the extent of your relationship together?”

You gesture half-heartedly at the Irishman. “You’ve seen him. You work with him more than I do. Shay is a tactile sort-of guy. He likes to have physical touch with other people. A lot of people think that means we’re closer than we really are.” The words sound rehearsed. You know it, and so does Haytham Kenway. You clear your throat. “I think we’re friends.”

“Anything more?”

“Maybe one day. Maybe he’d like to focus more on his career. Like you.” It’s not intended as a compliment, but Haytham smiles again. Either he’s been charmed by Shay’s wit, or he knows something more. Perhaps both. The train chimes, and then comes to a slow halt. “Good night, Haytham.”

“Good night to you both.”

You’re feeling slightly buzzed but it won’t leave a hangover tomorrow morning. Shay is another story. You fish the apartment key from his pocket, open the door, and let him stagger around for a few minutes. Eventually, you shove him into the bedroom and throw some clothes at him. “You need to change out of that suit,” you say, “and then go to sleep. Drink some water.”

“You’re a pretty thing. Can I walk you home first?” Shay teases.  _ Flirts like shit. _

“No, Shay, it’s already past midnight.”

He grabs your hand. “That sounds... bad. All sorts of people at this hour. I’d feel better if you stayed.”

Course, it’s not the first time that you crashed on his sofa, or vice versa. There are nights like these, when the two of you are too drunk or wary to go home alone. There are nights like birthdays and new years, when you celebrate til the early mornings and watch soap operas. And sometimes, there are nights when you just need someone to talk to.

You don’t have a change of clothes, but Shay sobers up enough to act like a host. He hands you a black shirt that reaches down to your knees, its front emblazoned with an unfamiliar band. He unties his hair and slips into flannel pants. You settle comfortably on his couch as he walks into the room, struggling to pull on a hoodie. You catch a glimpse of the white scars that litter his bronzed skin.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Shay says, stifling another yawn. “Any plans, or can I take you to brunch?”

“Sure. Your hangover might have a different opinion.”

“We’ll make it work.”

For April, Easter is the holiday to watch. During your days off, you and Shay put marshmallow chicks in the microwave as the age-old tradition demands. Then you take him to the annual egg hunt in the local park and watch, horrified, as Jacob and some of your rowdier colleagues (see: Hickey, Ezio, Rebecca) start lobbing raw eggs at each other.

Haytham and Shay are overseas for most of May and June. In the meantime, you continue to spend time with Evie, Connor, and the other archivists. Desmond tentatively bridges the differences between them and the tech department, and gathers enough interest for games and drinks. You hustle a few people from your department to join, though not many. The company is easygoing, and bonds form quickly between individuals.

Monopoly night nearly turns into a riot; allies and arch-nemeses are defined within this weird amalgam of friends and co-workers. Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad firmly abides by the rules while Connor declares war on Thomas Hickey and his teammates. Jacob is unusually furtive as he bankrupts others with a few lucky rolls. You’ve gotten the Go to Jail card more times than you can count, and have turned ownership completely over to the tactical warmonger, Élise de la Serre.

Jeopardy night is just as chaotic however less violent. Shaun Hastings is prohibited from playing, and instead acts as the announcer. 

He comes back in the early morning while you’re fixing breakfast. The hasty knock on the door, the twist of the key in the lock-- and you know it’s Shay even before he enters. He has shadows under his eyes and more lines around his eyes than you remember. He sets down his suitcase and hugs you tightly. He smells like new leather and smoke, but underneath it all, it’s still him.

“Two months,” Shay tells you as he pulls back, “Two months is the longest I’ve been away.”

You laugh. “I’m sure Haytham made great company. How was Europe?”

“The same as ever.” He cups your chin. “I don’t ever want to travel so long again. I missed you the most.”


	4. Fourth of July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /kicks writers block
> 
> c'mon brain do your stuff  
> c'mon brain think of things

“Rebecca, you’re with me.”

“Yusuf.”

“I want Ezio.”

“Then give me Lee.”

The company invited its employees to gather at the local park and partake in food, ice cream, and games. You adjust your hat and squint at the captains of the tug-o-war teams, Haytham and Connor, as they carefully consider their potential allies.

All departments had a mix of confidence, brawn, and determination-- necessary traits for a winning team. When Connor unexpectedly goes after his father’s closest associates, hoping their allegiance to pride was stronger for just a few minutes, Haytham retaliates by going after the more senior participants. He thinks their experience and strength will establish a foundation for victory.

Shay shoves his drink in your hands as he’s called over to Haytham’s side. “Good luck,” you tell him. He gives you a crooked smile, then jogs over to join his teammates.

You and Shaun sit at the sidelines, casually sipping melting iced lemonades. “So I know I’m not built for athletics,” the tech innovative says to you, “but why are  _ you  _ sitting out?”

“I have little to no grip strength,” you say plainly. “And it’s more fun to watch.”

Haytham and Connor finish their teams, and then shake hands to start the match. “This sets a precedent, you realize,” Shaun says in that all-too-familiar, all-knowing tone of voice, “especially because we’ve never had a team competition like this. Whoever wins, holds the title forevermore. I wager Kenway senior knows this more than junior. My money’s on him.”

From a distance, it seems like strength is Haytham’s advantage. He’d picked Ezio and Shay to combat against Connor and Jacob. Wild cards like Desmond, Hickey, Yusuf, and Rebecca were evenly split on either side.

“What do you think?”

You let your gaze drift over to Shay. The Irishman is taller and broader than most, and he’s standing closer to the front of the line. He chats animatedly with Evie and Henry Green, occasionally gesturing in your direction. “I think it’s just a game. Bayek and Aya would have loved to compete against us. Bonus: they would destroy everyone here.”

Shaun raises his eyebrows. “I’ll drink to that.”

Best two out of three wins the competition. Someone blows a whistle and everyone strains with all of their might to drag the ribbon over the line in the dirt. Their bare feet and sneakers dig in the grassy fields.

Then someone on Connor’s side loses their footing and it’s enough for Haytham and his team to wrench the ribbon over to their side.

The second round goes to Connor, as their consistent resistance inches them towards a slow victory.

Everyone looks wiped but they shake off the tension in their shoulders, seizing a quick drink before the final round decides a winner. Shay crashes next to you and winks at the two of you. “What a game, huh?” He waves away the offered drink. “Nah, I’m good.”

“You’re going to get a heatstroke, Cormac,” interjects Yusuf Tazim, whose unexpected, wiry strength secured his team’s success. “Drink plenty, plenty of water.”

Shay takes only a sip of the lemonade, then gets right back in the summer heat.

Both teams give it their all, but ultimately--

Connor and his team score the final victory. They cheer and then tackle their captain with unrestrained joy, collapsing in a huge pile in the middle of the field. Winners and losers shake hands, then form new teams as the July party continues with pie-eating competitions, three-legged races, and then half the company is recruited to chase after a dog who broke free of its leash.

By the time the cooler ice has melted and the unlikely friends have assigned designated drivers, it is past sundown and almost time for fireworks. You spread out a blanket on the field and sidle up with Shay, Connor, and Haytham. The father and son make for interesting company, even though they regard each other coolly-- almost as if your presence is the mediator of conflict.

Lights flicker across the sky-- bright, stunning colors of independence and summer, in all shapes and sizes. One particular shower of gold sends a shiver of delight down your spine. Your attention is momentarily drawn to Shay, as he lays down and rests his head on your outstretched legs, his eyes half-closed and hooded.

“Tired?” you ask, barely heard over the deafening fireworks. He nods. You card your fingers through his long hair and brush them out of his face.

Shay suddenly grabs your wrist and presses his lips against your palm for a brief moment. And then he just holds your hand on his chest, so you can feel every rise and fall of breath as the Irishman drowses before the spectacular sight. 

Hours later, closer to midnight, Haytham shows up outside your apartment with a half-conscious Shay slung around his shoulders. Both are slightly more tan than you remember. And then he hands you an unopened bottle of aspirin. “Here.”

“Is Shay drunk?” you ask, bewildered.

“No, but he probably has heat stroke from today’s activities.” Haytham grimaces. “I understand that it’s late, but Shay asked me to bring him here. Says that you’ll look after him.”

“I’m sorry he made you drag you all the way here.” You thank Haytham, take Shay’s hand, and invite him inside. The dark-haired man sways unsteadily, eyes heavy-lidded. He clumsily wraps his hands around a water bottle. You study him warily. “You just have to drink lots of water and sleep until the headaches go away. Couldn’t you do that at home?”

He mumbles incoherently.

“What?”

“I don’t--” Shay mutters-- “want to be alone.”

You hesitate. “All right.” Nudging him towards the empty couch, you sit with him for a while and talk quietly. His shoulders slowly drop and his voice grows low and hoarse, then silent. You gently unlace your fingers from his and softly trek to your own bedroom.

It’s one of those rare mornings without an alarm clock. You didn’t expect to sleep so well, worried about your friend’s recovery, but when you wake and turn over in bed-- 

\--you see Shay, snoring lightly, on the floor. He’s surrounded by couch pillows and he has this dumb, oblivious smile on his face. You have no idea how long he’s been there.

His eyes slowly open at the sound of your shifting sheets. “Hey,” Shay says sleepily, still smiling.

“Hey. Feel better?”

“Yeah.”

You don’t remember who reaches out first.

You just know how it ends: you and Shay, hands clasped, eyes locked, something unspoken, something more.


End file.
